901

ENGLAND'S ROSE

by Lewis Hamilton

The day we lost our Nation's Rose,
Tears we cried like rivers flowed,
The earth stood still
As we laid her to rest,
A day you and I
Will never forget,
The people's princess
Who came to see,
The love from a country
We'd hope she'd lead,
England's beauty
Captured in one sweet soul,
Carried the torch
God rest her soul,
With the gift she had
She'd light up the way,
With a smile to show us a brighter day,
Hearts still full
Of the love she gave,
Twenty years since she laid in her grave,
There will never be another like you,
Now a shining star in the midnight sky
I will always remember you,
Princess Diana,
As our sweet nation's rose.

I know how to drive a car,
My poetry? It really is well below par.
Silly rhyming couplets, oh so trite,
In the end, this anagram's complete shite!

Unlike Diana, beloved of Sir Elton,
I always put the safety belt on.
Monte Carlo tunnels Mercedes roar through,
Whereas in Paris, France, that's less true.

Now tell, dear Diana...Dodi's child were you with?
By old Greek/Dane hand, harsh revenge to give?
At the wheel, Henri, shitfaced pissed,
Oh, ethereal sweetheart, you're so sorely missed.

Oh, Welsh Wales' biggest loss, you tears deserve,
'Though we'd say, give white Fiat Unos a swerve.
In a flowery island shrine, rest there, hun,
A huge credit to Wills...and to Hewitt's son.

902

While in China, an American man was sexually promiscuous and didn't use condoms while he was there.

A week after arriving home in the States, he woke up one morning to find his manhood covered all over in bright green, blue and red spots.

Horrified, he set off fast to see his doctor.

The practitioner, never having seen anything quite like this before, ordered some tests and told the man to return in three days for the results.

The man returned three days later and the GP said, "I have some rather bad news. You've contracted Mongolian VD. It's very rare and almost unheard of here in the US; we just do not know very much about it."

The man looked perplexed and said, "Right, fair enough, just give me a pill or a shot of something that'll put it right then."

The GP answered bluntly, "I am sorry, but there's no known cure. I'm afraid we'll have to amputate."

The man screamed in horror, "Absolutely not! A hundred million times no! I want a second opinion."

The GP shrugged, "Well, It's your choice. You can do that if you wish, but surgery's really your only option here."

The next day, the man located a Chinese doctor, figuring that he'd know more about the disorder.

The Chinese doctor examined him and then said, "Ah, yes, Mongolian VD. Vewy ware disease."

The man replied, "Yes, yes, I already know this; so, what can be done about it? My American GP wants to cut my manhood off!"

The Chinese doctor shook his head and laughed. "Ha! Stupid American dottahs, always want opawate. Make more money dat way. No need amputate!"

"Thank God!" blubbered the man.

"Yes," said the Chinese doctor. "Wait three weeks. Fall off by itself...!"

The vicar asked if anyone in the congregation would like to give thanks for prayers that had been answered.

A woman arose from the end of a pew and walked up to the podium.

"Yes, me," she said, "I have such enormous 'thanks' to offer. Six months ago, my dear husband, Sonny, had a horrific motorbike crash and his scrotum was totally crushed. The injuries were horrendous and the outlook was desolate. The doctors didn't even know if they would be able to help him."

Everyone heard a muted gasp from the men in the congregation as they imagined the extreme pain that Sonny must have suffered.

"He was in great agony," she lamented, "and was unable to hug me or our children, as every move caused him excruciating pain. His disability was heartbreaking. We all prayed fervently as the doctors performed a really delicate operation and it turned out they were able to piece together the remains of Sonny's brutalised scrotum, and wrap wire around it to hold it in place."

Again, the men in the congregation squirmed uncomfortably as they tried to imagine the extreme surgery that would have been performed on Sonny.

"And now," she ended, her voice wavering with emotion, “my husband is out of hospital and the doctors think that, in time, his crushed scrotum should recover completely. Thanks to the Lord!"

All the men groaned with relief. The vicar rose and hesitantly asked if anyone wanted to add anything else.

A man rose and cautiously hobbled up to the podium. "Hi," he said, "I am Sonny."

The whole congregation held its breath.

"And I just want to tell my wife that the word is 'sternum'."

903

[Kenn Nesbitt's APRIL FOOL'S DAY ia anagrammed into another poem, THE JOKE'S ALREADY ON US, with 2 hidden constraints.]

APRIL FOOL'S DAY
Kenn Nesbitt

Mackenzie put a whoopie cushion on the teacher’s chair.
Makayla told the teacher that a bug was in her hair.

Alyssa brought an apple with a purple gummy worm
and gave it to the teacher just to see if she would squirm.

Elijah left a piece of plastic dog doo on the floor,
and Vincent put some plastic vomit in the teacher’s drawer.

Amanda put a goldfish in the teacher’s drinking glass.
These April Fool’s Day pranks are ones that you could use in class.

Before you go and try them, though, there’s something I should mention:
The teacher wasn’t fooling when she put us in detention.

THE JOKE'S ALREADY ON US

Sleazy Bill emphasised to us there was "no collusion,"
Linking to the outrageous thought of "no obstruction."

Ordering that Mueller Report to be then released;
Opposing cautious hangmen knew that we got fleeced!

Facts revealed he had his effective propaganda and his grand ploys;
Pneumatic jackhammers couldn't quash the humiliating noise.

Mincing no words, an unhappy racist with no shame,
Utterly paranoid, a nightmarish forty-fifth he became.

Russia apparently had met with the cohorts of the louse;
TP-laced cars line the pathway to a Soviet leak-stained White House.


If one turned the anagram on its head, it will be apparent that the the first and second letters spell out the sentence "TRUMP FOOLS PUT IN APRIL." Or, if you like, "APRIL FOOLS: PUTIN-TRUMP." And the title is shorthand for "THE JOKE'S ALREADY ON (THE) UNITED STATES."

THE JOKE'S ALREADY ON US

TP-laced cars line the pathway to a Soviet leak-stained White House;
RUssia apparently had met with the cohorts of the louse.

UTterly paranoid, a nightmarish forty-fifth he became;
MIncing no words, an unhappy racist with no shame.

PNeumatic jackhammers couldn't quash the humiliating noise;
FActs revealed he had his effective propaganda and his grand ploys.

OPposing cautious hangmen knew that we got fleeced,
ORdering that Mueller Report to be then released.

LInking to the outrageous thought of "no obstruction,"
SLeazy Bill emphasised to us there was "no collusion."

904

The following poetry was written in Spanish by the poet Amado Nervo.

LA SOMBRA DEL ALA

Tú que piensas que no creo

cuando argüimos los dos,

no imaginas mi deseo,

mi sed, mi hambre de Dios;


ni has escuchado mi grito

desesperante, que puebla

la entraña de la tiniebla

invocando al Infinito.

THE SHADOW OF THE WING

You that imagine I don't believe,

as we remonstrate in a dispute,

do not observe an impassioned desire:

an indescribable quest for God;


Are blind to pain, as man is a masque,

common agonies in a clouded place,

do not hear a querulous plea

I pray, as millions, call on Him.

905

COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPTEMBER 3, 1802
By William Wordsworth

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

OUR SPOILED TOUR
WESTMINSTER BRIDGE - APRIL 18, 2.30pm

The view from this great bridge today is sad,
Unhappy, like in 'troubling to the soul',
And as I take my melancholy stroll,
I see Big Ben in scaffolding is clad,
And just to show the whole world has gone mad,
The irksome Climate mob's assumed control;
To snarl up London's highways is their goal,
Do they feel guilty? No sir, they are glad!
Meanwhile, Westminster's Parliament stands tall,
This edifice that we wish to preserve,
Yet presently the House is run by fools,
Who seem to think they rule rather than serve,
Still we British shouldn't be appalled,
In life we get the Government we deserve.

906

[E. Pauline Johnson's poem 'Fire-Flowers' about the aftermath of a devastating fire is anagrammed into another poem about the effects of a recent such fire, which also contains a couple of relevant constraints:]

and only where the forest fires have sped,
scorching relentlessly the cool north lands,
a sweet wild flower lifts its purple head,
and, like some gentle spirit sorrow-fed,
it hides the scars with almost human hands.

and only to the heart that knows of grief,
of desolating fire, of human pain,
there comes some purifying sweet belief,
some fellow-feeling beautiful, if brief.
and life revives, and blossoms once again.

[The relevant acrostic 'alteration' is hand-drawn since it serves a second function when written horizontally; This is in fact an ambigram (anagram's visual cousin) which, when turned upside-down, elucidates the poem's subject:]

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